Deathly Hallows: The Final Battle
by spriteleigh
Summary: After a year of seeking out and destroying horcruxes on the instruction of an anonymous guide, Harry must find the last piece of the puzzle to stop Voldemort before he gets his hands on the most powerful magical item in or out of the world.


Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: The Final Battle

By Spriteleigh

Part 1 of 3: Return to Godric's Hollow

It was only Harry's second attempt at using a Time-Turner but the sensation of flying out of control, of spinning blurs of colour, weren't something he thought he'd ever want to get used to. At first the newly reappeared ground felt very slanted and off-balance beneath his feet while Ron, who hadn't been with him and Hermione the first time years ago, collapsed onto his back. His dazzled eyes roamed aimlessly and fell on Harry, who tried to smile encouragingly.

"Never again," Ron informed them, as Hermione helped to steady him on his feet. "Not ever."

Hermione had shaken the sensation off almost instantly and the large hourglass had already disappeared neatly into her school bag.

"I expect the greater distance has an effect on how difficult it is," she smiled encouragingly. Even now Harry still found it odd to hear her speak with patience to Ron. He was even now finding himself re-thinking his initial judgments about their relationship.

They were both looking at Harry now, waiting for his call. It was a tribute to their trust in him, their loyalty, that they said nothing more to dissuade him about what he'd decided to do, nothing about the mysterious messages that had led them to the most dangerous place they could imagine being. They had walked away from the most vicious war in nearly two decades, from their friends and loved ones who were risking their lives to protect peace and goodness. Harry had even left Ginny behind, to follow the advice of someone whose identity they might never know. But even Hermione's jaw was set with grim determination. If Harry was going, then so were his best friends, come what may.

Harry's eyes fixed on the distance behind them. Slowly, Ron and Hermione turned to follow his gaze down the pebbly street, across a small, rushing brook, and finally to the glowing lights of windows peering out from a cozy cottage, a cottage that was whole, that was bright with life.

In silence the three began moving toward the lights as one.

Once they had crossed a squat stone bridge over the whispering brook Hermione gently stopped Harry, who was walking as though not aware of what propelled him, and covered them all with the invisibility cloak. Then slowly, with small fumbling steps and bated breath, they made their way right up to the open window at the front of the cottage.

Harry, no longer aware of the others squashed against him or of his own quick breathing, could hardly believe he was looking in on his own past, on a part of his life that he had never before hoped to recover. The room, octagonal and crammed to bursting with overstuffed furniture and the forgotten cups, papers and toys of family life, was brightly lit by a large, cheering fireplace.

And there, on the deep, shaggy rug before the hearth, sat a man Harry knew instantly and instinctively, a man with glasses that reflected the firelight, with untidy black hair through which he was absent-mindedly running his hand. Suddenly a quick, joyous laugh erupted into the room. Harry turned and saw, at the other end of the carpet and leaning against the foot of the sofa, a beaming woman who laughed again as she caught her husband's eye, and flicked back a lock of firelit red hair that hung before her startling green eyes.

That laugh, that look both so full of happiness and intimacy, made Harry's knees weaken. He felt Ron and Hermione's arms on either side of him, bracing him with their nearness.

He brought himself to look again. And yes, there, leaning against the woman's knees and clutching at her shining hair, was - Harry. An infant Harry who was happy, who was smiling, who turned and laughed at his father as well, just for the mere enjoyment of it.

James sheepishly pulled his hand from his hair, and Lily gave him one more look that was full of sly amusement and love, a look that only those who have known each other well could share. She turned back to the child at her knee and saw him with his chubby hand held flat against his head in imitation of his father, rubbing it in circles and causing his soft child's hair to stick up worse than before. James joined in with the laughter this time.

If Harry still had any reason to doubt that his parents had learned to love each other after their fifth year at Hogwarts, after what he'd seen in Dumbledore's pensieve, he had no more reason to doubt now. He had never seen a look like the ones they shared, or the ones they turned on their chubby baby.

"Here, Lil, send him over," James said as he clapped his hands and held them out toward the child. Lily turned the boy to face his father and steadied him on his too-small feet. Little Harry shrieked with glee as he flung out his arms and made a few quick, wobbling steps.

After a few of these little sprints, with pauses between to find his equilibrium again, the child arrived in his father's arms and, gurgling out a huge baby chuckle, was lifted up in the air. "What a good walker! How'd you get so smart, then?" The boy laughed again as he was bounced in the air. "You're right," James went on, "you got it from your smart mummy! I should have known!"

"Well, I guess the little squirt's got some sense after all, not to take after you!" A new voice broke out, followed by a gruff bark of a laugh. Harry's eyes darted into a corner, where a head covered in lazily draped black hair was leaning against the back of an armchair that faced away from the window. Turning, it rose from the seat, and from the window he saw a stunningly handsome profile, with a wicked glint to the eye. Sirius. With a casual stretch, he strode over to the child, who reached his hands to his godfather now, and spun the boy out of his dad's hands and around in circles in the air. The baby's gleeful shrieks grew ever louder while James and Lily gazed at their happy child and their cherished friend.

A fully-grown Harry, standing outside of the ring of firelight looking in, could hardly bring himself to keep watching. How could he have forgotten this life, this night? And how could anyone, even the most evil wizard alive, bear to take it away from them? Next to him Hermione was trying to muffle her sniffles, and Harry was sure he could feel her fingers clutching Ron's behind his back.

A sudden knock startled the three at the window, as well as the three inside. The family's smiling faces went straight and white. Lily grabbed Harry, still and sensitive tot he tension in the air, to her breast. James made his way quietly into the hallway and out of the onlookers' sight.

In the silence that followed James's voice came softly. "Who is it?"

"Dumbledore. Favourite jam: raspberry."

The strain in Lily's face disappeared as she listened to the voices greeting each other. The voices grew nearer again, and James reentered the room, followed by a slightly younger and vibrantly alive Dumbledore and a tall, sullen-looking man Harry did not remember having ever met, yet who looked somewhat familiar, as though he inhabited a small part of the back of Harry's mind.

Harry noted that James, Lily and Sirius seemed unwilling to meet this man's eyes, but rather spoke in serious tones directed at Dumbledore. The man remained in a corner near the hallway while James resumed his seat on the rug and Dumbledore hefted up the baby and settled himself easily into the deepest armchair stationed nearest the fire. Little Harry began squirming and pulling at Dumbledore's pocketwatch, much as a child would who had just seen his favourite uncle. A somewhat long and strained silence fell when everyone was settled in the room.

Lily was the first to muster the courage to speak. "Are you sure, Dumbledore? I mean really sure, that you want to go through with this?"

Sirius was shaking his head now. "There must be some other way, something we haven't thought of..."

Dumbledore too was shaking his head, partly in disagreement and partly to amuse the baby who was making grasping motions at his half-moon spectacles. "We all know all too well that there is no other way. We must prevent Voldemort (the name caused the tension in the room to mount, but nobody objected) from acquiring the one thing that would make him more powerful than he is even now, more powerful than any living creature. If we do one thing, we must do this, and it must be done at any risk, even the great risks Caradoc and I are proposing to take. And it can only be done today, on Halloween."

His raised hand prevented the arguments that had risen to his companions' lips. "I have not promised you that nothing will go wrong, because I do not know myself how great a risk we face. This has never been done before in living memory. I hope it may never have to be undertaken again. But as the Order has acknowledged, there is hardly any choice in the matter. If Voldemort retrieves what he seeks beyond the veil, he will have power over life and death for all who dwell in the land of the living, and can achieve his heart's desire, his own immortality. So I ask again that you help me get it first.

"I will not feel secure until such a powerful magical object is within my control, where I will use it not for evil, but for good if I can find any in it. Remember, should I die, it will follow me, bound to my soul, to the land of the dead, and can be retrieved again by whosoever chooses to seek it out. But we can only prevent the destruction of our world one moment at a time, and for this moment, this is all that can be done. And it cannot be done without your assistance."

Harry, Ron and Hermione watched with bated breath as the room's occupants gazed into the fire with an air of unrest.

Lily suddenly lowered her head and choked out, "If we lost you as well-"

While she wiped a tear from her eye Dumbledore busied himself with a little tin box that he extracted from a hidden pocket. He sprung the lid open and withdrew two small yellow lozenges. With a blank face, devoid of emotion, he placed one in his mouth and held the other to the lips of the grasping baby on his lap. He then drew in a long breath.

"I owe you more still, more than I have yet revealed to you. You are the one whose abilities will make our quest possible at all, and I will now reveal something to you... (he seemed to need a moment to compose himself) Something I am so- so dreadfully ashamed of. It is my greatest regret. But I feel it is the least I can do to put your mind at rest."

There was utter silence within the warmly lit room, as well as beyond the window. In time Lily's gaze met Dumbledore's.

"I wouldn't dare believe that you, of all people, could have done something worthy of shame. I couldn't."

Rather than be encouraged by her words, Dumbledore seemed to need even greater strength to continue. Out in the cool black air Harry could see he was mustering up a great deal of courage to face this confession. Harry also cringed at the pain that showed in Dumbledore's face; he had never seen the man look like this, look so burdened, so afraid, not since that day in Voldemort's cave.

"I wish," Dumbledore's voice broke out, and it had grown hoarse, "more than anything, I wish that I could be deserving of the faith that so many good and great people have placed in me. But in my foolish youth - well, younger and more foolish than I am now - I committed an abominable sin: I took the life of another man."

Sirius leapt up from the chair he'd been occupying. "The world owes you its debt for that abominable sin, as you call it!"

James added, "That was a great act of heroism. You rid the world of the blight of Grindelwald. That was no sin."

Dumbledore's head was now bowing under the doubled weight of his own regret as well as the faith he felt was so misguided. "I assure you I believed nothing less at the time. But there is no recompense for taking the life of another, no matter what that life was. You do not barter with the land of the dead. I will never be clean of that stain, and will always have the scar to bear witness to the memory. And that is not even the worst of what I did." Another pause, during which all of the listeners stole glances at each other, their faces questioning, frightened. "I regret more than anything in my life that, in my arrogance, I used the act of murder to create a horcrux."

The stillness was absolute. Even the baby seemed to go still, with eyes darting around at the others for a hint as to what to do next. Beyond the curtains, the other Harry stood frozen with knuckles gone white upon the windowsill, and then sank silently to his knees in the moist grass. This could not possibly be... the weight of the items he had so painstakingly collected was dragging down on his shoulders by the straps of his bag. The punctured diary... the cracked ring... the locket from Sirius's house... the Hufflepuff cup from the graveyard... the Ravenclaw wand from the Riddle house... and the splintered fang of Nagini... He could feel the collective mass of these symbols of concentrated evil as though it would crush him, as though the remaining soul pieces had tangible weight.

Crouched there, with mud and dew soaking through the knees of his jeans, feeling only the taught stiffness of Ron and Hermione's legs next to him, Harry did not know how long the silence lasted. Once again, it was Dumbledore who broke it.

"Yes, I imprisoned my damaged soul and concealed it from the land of the dead. I do not even hope for your understanding. How could I? The innocent can not imagine what it is to lose innocence. So in my shame I have kept this knowledge from those who loved me, because I was selfish. I could not bear the thought of going unloved. I tell you this now because I owe you everything, and I want you to see me for what I truly am. I also want you to see that, should I be unable to cross the veil again and return to the land of the living, despite all of our preparations, that this, and this alone, may save me and prevent Voldemort from ruling over our world like a self-proclaimed god. I hope that I can use my mistake to benefit our kind, and perhaps, in some small way, I will atone for my disgrace."

When no one spoke into the pause that followed these words, Dumbledore chose to keep talking; perhaps he felt it easier to go on now, now that there was finally no objection to his plans.

"Please do not think I mistrust your abilities, Lily. There are few in this world with your prodigious talents, and I do not choose to doubt that all will go as you intend. But you need not feel that you are aiding a man to commit a useless suicide. If your potion fails to return me to safety, of which I assure you I have no doubt, we may all turn our hopes to the arts of another."

At this, Lily was startled into speaking. "What other? Who-"

Dumbledore was already rising from his seat and lowering the now sticky child onto Lily's lap. "Oh, forgive the ramblings of a man grown old. Besides, it is high time that Caradoc and I were on our way; we risk everything in delaying, much as I would prefer to remain here in such domestic bliss," he said, waving his hands about the comfortable, inviting room. "Now, if I may be so rude as to request the potion from you, Lily, as well as your cloak, James, for Caradoc. I promise to return it at my earliest convenience."

James and Lily started to rise, but suddenly everyone froze at a sudden sound from the back of the house, a sound as of thunder, along with a roaring cry of a desperate voice.

Dumbledore alone did not go pale. He chuckled, in fact. "Well," he said, "I can't say I'm surprised to see Hagrid tonight, though I'd truly hoped to get away without a scene." There was an all-too-familiar twinkle in his eyes as he turned into the hall and disappeared toward the back door that was being hammered on mercilessly. Dumbledore returned shortly with the hulking Hagrid, looking wilder than usual, and with his gigantic checkered handkerchief pressed to his face.

He was howling even yet. "Why couldn'yeh let me, Professor? Yeh know I'd do anything fer yeh... Anything! I owe yeh everything!" And more muffled howls escaped from the handkerchief.

Without a word Dumbledore led Hagrid to the chair he himself had recently vacated and then placed a concerned-looking Baby Harry upon Hagrid's broad knee. As though by magic Hagrid dropped his handkerchief and a smile broke across his glittering cheeks while the child began to tug at his tangled whiskers.

"I'm afraid you as well as I know that this is Caradoc's claim to make and his alone. I would ask no such sacrifice on my humble behalf, but one cannot turn down the offer of repayment of a life debt, as he has done."

The Harry at the window had almost forgotten the tall, grim man who had faded into the corner shadows, as though an intruder among the light and happiness of friends. Harry turned to watch this man now, but he had his head down and seemed to shrink from any attention from the others. Unexpectedly, Lily jumped up from her spot by the fire, ran to him and threw her arms around him. "Oh Caradoc! How can I face the idea of never seeing you again! How can I say goodbye!" 

The man, his faced turned as far away from her as it would go, now raised a visibly shaking hand and clasped her shoulder. His voice, deep and harsh and full of pain, said, "You can't imagine how sorry I am, Lily. I just can't see it any other way. I owe Dumbledore my life many times over, and now that I've lost my..." his voice broke, he could not speak the name. "I failed her... Dumbledore and I were too slow, and I lost her to the Death Eaters. I cannot rest in peace until I've given my very life to prevent this from happening to you, to everyone else, and destroying all the love in the world. My death can serve that cause more fully than my life ever could. You would do the same; you all would." And Lily went on holding him while his body quavered, but he would still not raise his eyes or turn his face to the friends he would leave forever.

Dumbledore made his way over to the two of them and placed his hand on Caradoc's shoulder. "It is time we went. There is no good to be found in prolonging such a painful farewell." Looking almost relieved, Caradoc was released by Lily, and with his jaw and eyebrows set resignedly turned toward the door. Hagrid, the child perched on one of his massive shoulders, half-raised himself from his chair in order to protest anew but Dumbledore stopped him with a raised hand.

"Hagrid, your loyalty to me is greater than any I will ever deserve, but I will not forget this. If it will put your heart at ease, I will promise you now that should I ever have such a foolish notion as to put my life in danger again, I would trust none other to give his life for mine." Hagrid turned red and shuffled his feet sheepishly at this. "For the moment I ask only that you and Sirius stay nearby while I am unable to keep watch here. We never know when to expect a strike. Let us all hope that we do the right thing."

Hagrid, with his arm around the boy who was rooting through his bushy hair, and with a look of waning defiance and growing pride, held his peace. In the gloomy quiet that ensued, Lily and James left the room to return shortly with a small bottle that sparkled dimly, and a silver cloak that shone like molten silver, and handed them to Dumbledore. Taking his leave with a mere wave of the hand and twinkle of the eye, Dumbledore turned and followed the tall man from the room.

For a long while no one spoke. Lily and James, seated together on the floor with hands clasped together, watched as Hagrid absent-mindedly bounced their son on his knee. Sirius merely sprawled deep in his seat, shadows about him as though they were drawn to him. When the baby grew drowsy and started to yawn and rub his eyes with his small fists, Hagrid rose and handed him to Lily.

"Think I'll just have a mite to drink at the pub down the way; get some air. Won't be gone long," and he left by way of the hall to the back door.

When the door clicked shut Sirius jumped up from his chair with a shake of his head that flung his loose hair about and said, "Fancy a ride, I think," and turned out of the room to follow Hagrid.

Lily, James, Harry, Ron and Hermione listened to the sounds of Sirius' motorcycle roaring off and Hagrid's heavy step and breath plod away across the moor. The baby, his thumb firmly resting in his mouth, was now asleep. James and Lily did not appear to want to continue their games by the fireplace, and so closed up the grate, windows, and curtains, and began making their way into the hall and up the stairs. In one arm Lily carried her sagging, dozy baby, and in the other she scooped up Harry's milk bottle and a second phial that seemed to sparkle like the one Dumbledore had left with. The room went dark and silent.

Ron and Hermione waited once again for a cue from Harry. What would he choose to do? Could they trust him not to interfere with the past, when they all knew very well that at this moment Voldemort was making his way to the unprotected, unsuspecting house,? But with a will Harry forced a small smile and nodded his head the way they had come. They made their way silently from the house and back across the low bridge toward the place where they had arrived.

At a safe distance, Hermione folded the invisibility cloak back into her bag as quietly as possible, as though afraid of her own sounds. Her voice came out tiny and high. "Harry, are - are you ok?" But Harry thought she looked worse off than even he felt. She was worried on his behalf, but he, who had known some of what to expect on the night of his parents' deaths, was somehow quietly happy to have experienced some of their life. And he had learned what he had needed to know. Now he had to turn his mind away from the horror that he knew was closing in on them, the horror that was the miserable Wormtail, beckoning Voldemort on to the house.

Ron wasn't looking at them but stood with his face to the moon, muttering. "Blimey... I mean, Dumbledore."

Hermione took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said, "So what do we do now?"

Harry answered immediately and with conviction. "We go to the Department of Mysteries."

Hermione and Ron both stared. "Why there?"

"Because that's what we learned we had to do just now. In the present, on our Halloween, Voldemort is going after that thing, whatever it is, on the other side of the veil. So we do what Dumbledore did. We get it first."

Part 2 of 3: Unpaid Debts

After another swirling journey across a sea of time followed by a hurried apparition, both of which left Ron rather pale and quiet, the three found themselves at the Ministry of Magic's entrance booth. The telephone cheerfully admitted them (purpose: Heroic Sacrifice), and in no time at all, which nonetheless felt like it dragged on forever, they were hurtling through the deserted Ministry of Magic lobby, descending impatiently in a golden lift, and racing down the dark Department of Mysteries corridor. Once in the circular room of doors, Harry decided he should try the method that had helped him find his way the last time he was in a desperate situation.

"I need help! I need to get to the chamber of death!" And, to Harry, Hermione and Ron's amazement and eternal gratitude, a door flung itself open across from them, beyond which was a huge stone room sunk into the ground. They were through the door in an instant, and below them they saw the now-familiar rows of seating, the dais, the arch hung with its ethereal veil, and-

"You!" Harry was down the steps in a flash and standing face to face with Snape, his wand held at the ready, aimed at Snape's heart. Snape didn't move or alter his sneering expression. He was lightly rocking on his feet as though waiting patiently for something, as though Harry's arrival was not at all unexpected.

"Of course me," he replied casually, and the contempt in his voice was as prominent as ever.

Ron and Hermione remained above them at the door, eyes darting from one to the other, unsure what to do. Harry stood speechless, unable to make sense of all the many thoughts that were crowding into his mind, things he'd imagined himself saying to Snape if ever he were to meet him again. But the words did not come; Harry was too surprised and furious. At some point his racing brain took in the fact that Snape did not have his wand out, and he did not look as though he would reach for it. What was he doing? Harry's wide eyes watched Snape's contorted mouth widen across his face.

"It seems I owe you my apologies," Snape said, "I never dared hope you would make it this far. It would seem I have underestimated you; I was quite convinced that either your arrogance would prevent you from following my directions, or that your recklessness would finish you off long before you reached this point. Perhaps Dumbledore's faith in you these many, many years was not as misplaced as I had told him, time and again."

Harry's wand shook but his aim stayed true. "Don't - you - say - his - name - COWARD!"

Rage to equal Harry's lit up Snape's face at this, but as he himself was wandless he did not move. "I TOLD you, Potter. NEVER call me coward. You could never begin to dream of what I have endured for the sake of bravery-"

"ENDURED? You sold someone who trusted you to Voldemort, who you supported all along. I should pity you because you took advantage of Dumbledore and turned on him? Because you caved in to fear -"

"SILENCE!" Snape was quaking now, more so than the mere terror of Voldemort's name should cause him to do. "How could I possibly expect you, you who have never truly risked so much - no, nothing - for the sake of loyalty. You, who have always thought you had everything so neatly figured out, everyone so perfectly categorized between good and evil. Could you have taken the life of the very person you trusted and needed the most, cared the most for, owed the most to, if he'd asked _you_?" At the look of panicky doubt on Harry's face, Snape laughed a gruesome, miserable laugh. "No, I didn't think so. Not even you, the great Potter, could do what I've done. And you least of all have the right to judge me."

Hermione's voice, small and echoing, broke in from behind Harry. "What did you mean, _your_ directions?"

Harry's mind was going a mile a minute and getting nowhere. Nothing was making sense – these messages – that murder... His spinning thoughts paused on an image of Dumbledore's pensieve. If only he had it, if only he knew where it was, he could use it to find his way through this maze Snape was creating around him. The thought was somehow calming to him, and he was able to look back into Snape's black eyes.

"I meant exactly what I said, of course," Snape said. "I have led you to this place. Through my instruction you have learned everything you needed to know to defeat the Dark Lord. Yes, through my help and mine alone. I have nearly carried out my orders, and have nearly paid my suffocating debt to you, Potter. Finally I will be rid of you. This will be the last time we will ever meet, and good riddance!"

Harry's spinning mind latched onto that last sentence and held there. "I haven't done anything to you. And I'm not going to let you kill me!" Sparks, now red, now green, were emitting impatiently from Harry's wand tip.

"Wait!" Suddenly there was a clatter behind Harry, and Hermione stumbled by him and planted herself between his wand and Snape.

From behind him Harry heard Ron say, "Uh, Hermione... what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Hermione," Harry cried in frustration, "move it!"

But she ignored them both and turned to Snape. "What did you mean? When you said you killed someone because they asked you to? Surely not-"

"Yes, you nosy girl! Once again you have interpreted things with somewhat less inanity than these two clods. Yes, Dumbledore asked me, begged me, to kill him. He knew that if the Death Eaters should ever find their way into the castle, that they would go straight for the magical cauldon of death Dumbledore was protecting, and everything Dumbledore had worked for would be destroyed. He knew that his death alone could protect the cauldron under those circumstances, and the Dark Lord did not. But now my new master has learned more of the lore of the cauldron and he has deduced its location, and so I led you here in order to stop him once again. And you alone can do it."

"Me?" Harry said. "How?"

"You must defeat him on the other side. Only there can he be truly killed, and only there are your powers greater than his. He has sacrificed all the strength of the soul for that of his body."

Harry's eyes wandered momentarily to the veil, which swung as though enticing him, forbidding him, and mocking him all at once.

"So why should I believe you?"

Now the frustration and loathing were so apparent that they practically bulged from behind Snape's eyes. "Because for once you have no choice. All those who have sacrificed themselves for you, for the peace of our world, will have done so in vain if you fail them now. I know that your arrogant father would never have done such a thing on my advice, but _you_ must, for once in your life, have more sense than that."

Harry's eyes strayed unintentionally to the veil again. Why did such an impossible thing suddenly have to seem so logical? And why did he have to make this decision alone, without Sirius, without Dumbledore to guide him? This was a far harder task than any he'd faced up till now. At least before he'd always known what to do, even if it had seemed dangerous, even impossible. It was just a matter of trying. This was so different.

Suddenly, as though from a great distance, as though coming through the veil itself, came a sound, one that Harry knew to be phoenix song. Somehow, somewhere, Fawkes or Dumbledore wanted to give him one last message.

Harry made a decision then and there.

"How do I get back?"

Hermione, still standing in front of Harry, spun on him, but beyond her Harry saw the loathing falter on Snape's face for an instant. From behind Harry he heard Ron stutter, "Hang on-"

"How?" Harry asked again, with growing determination in his voice. "I didn't see Dumbledore do it."

With a steady eye and straight face, Snape replied, "Someone must willingly take your place through the veil, permanently."

All of Harry's resolve fell away. "No- any other way-"

"There is no other way, Potter.The land of the dead is not generous; it does not give anything away. But under very great circumstances it will make an even trade. When Dumbledore went he allowed Caradoc Dearhorn of the Order to replace him." And now the familiar sneer crept across Snape's face again. "It seems you are fated to have yet another person sacrifice himself for you."

Harry could hear shuffling steps behind him, and Ron's voice, quiet but clear. "I'll go."

Hermione immediately threw her hands up in panicked objection, and Harry could feel Ron's eyes avoiding hers. As though embarassed at her reaction, Hermione flushed, her eyes still on Ron. "Why you?" she quavered. "I-I can go."

At this Ron, who was now beside Harry, coloured deeply. "Of course you won't, Hermione. I won't let you." His head was bowed with –pain? fear? regret? but his eyes burned into hers with determination and she burst into tears.

As though tired and unimpressed, Snape broke in. "Do not be so foolish. It takes a lifetime to be ready to make such a sacrifice. It cannot be entered into through arrogant bravery alone. Only one who is fully aware and prepared can possibly have the necessary determination, which requires full, cold acceptance of what is to come. Your wills would weaken and you would abandon Potter to his death, and our world to darkness."

Harry was now thinking harder than he'd ever thought possible. There was no other way to stop Voldemort, but there was no such person; and Harry could not ask such a thing, not of anyone.

A malicious grin spread across Snape's sallow face. "You will always have need of the help of others, Potter."

Harry's face was burning, but Hermione replied coldly, "There's no shame in accepting help."

"Wrong!" Snape spat. "The shame is great and it is there until you've taken every step possible to pay back your debt. And tonight I will finally pay mine."

Suddenly a door off to the side of the chamber banged open. In an instant there were coloured spells flying everywhere, and Ron and Hermione crumpled into a heap, while Harry was sent sliding across the floor toward the foot of the dais. With his hand on his throbbing head, Harry turned to look up at the door, and saw Wormtail standing there, his wand at the ready and a gleeful smile on his lips. Harry's eyes whipped back around to Snape who stood with his arms outstretched to Wormtail.

"Greetings."

"No!" Harry cried, his whole being writhing at the injustice, the betrayal, when he'd just brought himself to trust where he had never thought he could trust again. "You were lying all this time!"

Without looking at him Snape said silkily, "There is more than one debt to be paid tonight, Potter. I have arranged everything very carefully, believe me."

At this, a high, frigid laugh erupted from the doorway behind Wormtail, causing all the hairs on Harry's spine to curl. And with a flash, though he knew it was coming, pain erupted like a white hot wire running from Harry's scar through to the back of his head. Through slitted eyes he saw Wormtail's heavy form step aside, and a skeletal, black-cloaked Voldemort emerge beside him.

"You have done well, my prince. I only wish I could honour you as befits your services, but alas, I have already promised the great sacrifice to Wormtail here."

"Welcome my Lord," said Snape with a bow.

Harry thought he saw a look of cringing terror on Wormtail's face as he began to climb clumsily down the steep steps. He watched as Voldemort placed a deep-heeled boot against Wormtail's back and pushed, sending his servant bouncing and howling down the stone steps. "He knows he is hardly worthy of the honour of giving his life for me, but it is really all his life is good for, and he knows he will obey in the end." His cruel laugh erupted into the empty room and echoed, multiplied, thoughout the space while Wormtail curled up on the floor near Harry.

And at that moment Harry caught sight of his wand, which he must have dropped when he was thrown, disappearing into Snape's pocket.

"You have the potion?" Voldemort said, as he made his way casually toward Snape.

"Of course, my Lord," said Snape, bowing again, and removing a small glass phial from his robes. It contained a clear liquid that flashed and sparkled with faint rainbow colours, like liquid crystal. Harry recognized it as the same potion he'd seen his mother give to Dumbledore an hour, or a lifetime, ago. "I learned of it from Dumbledore long before and have been slaving to perfect the technique ever since. I have complete faith that it will work perfectly."

"Excellent," replied Voldemort, eyeing the phial. "I would trust such words from none but you. But if even you should fail me, as so many have, I still have no reason to fear death yet. Come, Wormtail, we shall complete the potion with your blood, the last ingredient. You shall die a hero, better than you have lived."

Wormtail climbed to his feet and seemed to move with the greatest reluctance toward Snape and Voldemort.

Snape uncorked the bottle and handed it to Voldemort, who in turn held it out to Wormtail. "Now," Voldemort said, but it was more an order or a threat than a request. Wormtail merely began shaking uncontrollably.

Voldemort seemed to lose what little patience he had left. "Now, Wormtail. You will be honoured in your death by all who love me, rather than despised in your life. It is far more than you deserve."

Wormtail started to shuffle slowly away, but in an instant Voldemort was on top of him, freezing him with a silent spell. "Bravery is truly too much to expect of you. But I do not need your consent." At that instant, a line of blood appeared from under Wormtail's mousy hair, crept down between his eyes and along his nose, and landed into the bottle held by Voldemort. Wormtail gasped and fell backward onto the floor and at the same moment the potion flared, as though burning, like liquid fire. Voldemort let his tongue slide over his thin lips, now completely heedless of Wormtail at his feet, eyes fixed on the contents of the bottle. He carefully replaced the cork and dropped the phial into a pocket of his robes.

"My prince," he said, whirling around to face Snape. "On my return we shall rule the world together with the power of death at our command. For the time being, I shall have no need of this." He reached his hand out to Snape, with his wand clasped between his thin fingers. On the floor Harry cringed, expecting some sudden treachery, but then realized the wand was held with the handle facing out. He watched as Snape bowed once more, took the wand delicately from Voldemort's hand and stowed it carefully in a pocket.

With that Voldemort turned and made his way up the steps of the dais. "I will also leave Wormtail and Potter in your care, Severus. I trust you will aid my reluctant servant in making the right choice when the time comes. But Wormtail," he said silkily over his shoulder, "lest you should forget, I shall return with or without your help, and beware my wrath should I find that you have failed me." Harry watched as Wormtail cowered on the floor. "And Potter," Harry's head snapped up and his eyes met Voldemort's red slits. "You may await my return and my revenge here. But should you choose to follow me, I will not regret seeing you in the land of the dead." And all that was left of him was a ringing laugh upon the air.

Harry hadn't had a moment in which to collect his scattered thoughts, his shattered hopes, when Snape spoke.

"Your task just got harder, Potter. In your arrogance you doubted me, you delayed, and now you have let him cross ahead of you. I trust you are pleased with yourself."

Harry was barely listening. He lay still on the cold floor, his bones going numb, his fingers gripping the worn stones as though they were all he had left to hang onto. The unwelcome voice entered his consciousness, a voice that had spoken Dumbledore's name and used it to fool him. In the end it was Snape who had stood between Harry and the veil, between the entire world and any chance of peace.

"Well then," the silky voice continued, worming its way into Harry's brain and spreading hatred throughout. "Will you cross the veil now? You have no other choice, of course." Through the hard stone Harry could feel steps moving closer to him. He was shaking with rage but could not raise himself off the floor, as though his guilt, his shame, his hopelessness were too great a weight for him.

"I tried, Potter. I tried to tell you not to delay, not to let your abysmal pride slow you down, but you have succumbed to it yet again." The voice continued to swirl around Harry, filling his guts with fire. "Your task has grown immeasurably more hopeless. Do you have bravery enough for this? To face the Dark Lord in a battle of spirit, where none can protect you, and where you have lost the upper hand?"

"Yes!" It came out without a pause or a thought. Harry's eyes rolled up to meet Snape's heartless face, sneering down on him from above.

Without missing a beat, Snape continued. "Will you accept another's debt to you? Will you watch one more person sacrifice himself for you?"

At this Harry found that he could not speak. Could he do that? But a sudden whimper from the bundle that was Wormtail on the floor nearby lit a near fire in his brain. A debt... Dumbledore had once said that the time may come when he would be very glad he had saved Pettigrew's life. He was now staring wide-eyed at Wormtail's curled back. Could he make this demand? And could such a pitiful creature be trusted to follow through with it?

Snape's gaze followed Harry's, and in one decisive movement he whipped another hidden phial out of his pocket and uncapped it. It was filled with the same potion, with its glints of rainbow light. He strode over to Wormtail, and as the rat-like face turned up, quivering, to face his, he shoved the bottle right under Wormtail's nose.

"Will you claim the dues of the life-debt, Wormtail? It is your right to give your life for Harry Potter. Do you offer it?"

Harry, unable to look away, watched as Wormtail curled back up into his ball, trembling violently, and shook his head in whip-like motions. Harry felt his heart fall within him, but perhaps he was relieved too. He pushed that thought out of his mind.

Without pause Snape turned back to face Harry. "Do you claim your dues of the life-debt, Potter? It is your right to ask the life of Peter Pettigrew, whom you have saved. Do you ask it?" He spoke in a mesmerizing tone, as though reciting a ritual, as though he even enjoyed it. Harry's eyes never left Wormtail, who lay shaking, clinging to his pitiful life. He was the most loathsome creature Harry had ever known, and his whole soul was seething with hatred. But he could not ask it.

"No."

Snape let out a hoarse, evil laugh. "I'm sure not even you know whether you are being honorable or cowardly, Potter." Harry shot a look of defiance and disgust up at Snape's face, but the sneer never faltered on the thin lips and hooked nose. "I demand, here and now, that you prove your worth, Potter." Still moving quickly, he brough this wand tip to his own finger, and withdrew a quivering bead of scarlet blood. The bead hovered at the tip of the wand for only a moment, and then fell into the bottle in Snape's hand. The potion seethed into life.

"I now claim my life debt to you, Harry Potter, a debt passed down from your father to you, and it is yours to receive. I claim my debt of gratitude, one passed down from your mother to you, for you to take. I claim my debt of honour do Albus Dumbledore, which only you can claim. All scores will be settled tonight. I offer you my soul."

"You- what?" Harry could barely draw breath to speak, his lungs strangled in his chest. He saw Snape's eyes shrink to slits, watching him. "Why?"

This seemed to make Snape explode, losing all the composure he'd been maintaining throughout. "Because your father risked his miserable life for my sake! Your mother gave her pity, maybe even her love, to me and I repaid it with disdain and treachery. Dumbledore gave me his trust, and I have not yet fulfilled my final promise to him. I am sorely indebted to you, Potter, through no will or action of my own, and it would give me no greater pleasure than to be paid in full and rid of your abominable presence!" He was heaving, teeth bared and eyes aflame with rage, but Harry thought he also saw a hint of something like relief, and regret, beyond the anger.

Into the ringing silence that followed, Snape spoke quietly, with an air of finality. "Will you accept my offer?" 

His eyes glued to Snape's, and remembering all that Snape had said up until now, as well as the undeniable note of phoenix song he knew he'd heard, Harry came to the most difficult decision he would ever face, and he faced it alone.

"Yes."

Snape seemed to deflate. He was shuddering, but Harry thought it looked like his rage had all gone out of him. "Then it is done." And he held the phial out to him.

Harry rose finally from the stone floor and reached his shaking hand out to take the bottle. His eyes met Snape's for the last time, and he saw the same loathing as ever, but perhaps there was also gratitude there. Harry didn't think he'd ever truly know. He hurriedly slid the bottle into the leather pouch he'd worn around his neck for over a year, which had held Sirius's silent mirror ever since Harry had left on his quest to destroy all of the horcruxes.

Unbidden thoughs crept through his head as he purposefully pulled the pouch's mouth closed, thoughts of fear and doubt. How could he possibly trust this man, Snape of all people, with his life? But he immediately came to the conclusion that if there was one thing about Snape he could trust implicitly, it was his hated. This and this alone would secure Snape's decision. At least Harry fervently hoped this to be the case; his very life depended on it. He hung the phial delicately around his neck and placed his foot on the bottommost step of the dais.

"You need only speak my name to the veil. I will take your hand." Harry nodded but didn't turn around. Snape's voice was sombre and quiet now. "Do not do this unless you are successful. I give my life for a greater purpose than merely saving your skin."

Harry continued up the steps, looking down at the pouch swinging from his neck. He thought of the horcruxes that he'd never learned to destroy, hanging at his back. Was this an exercise in futility? Had he been too late figuring them out? He came to the conclusion that, whether it be for a time or for good, Voldemort must be stopped again, and then again if need be.

And how could he ever thank Snape? No part of his soul could find the words, so buried in a history of mistrust and hatred. When he reached the top step and was facing the veil, he started to turn, hoping the words would just come somehow, but before he had a chance to speak-

"Potter. Thank you."

He turned to meet Snape's eyes, but found that at that moment Snape had gone rigid, wand to wand with Wormtail who stood across from him now, trembling with rage rather than fear. His voice came out a high, grating screech.

"I will not allow this treachery to the Dark Lord! You were his most trusted! You will pay!"

Snape, his hatred turned on Wormtail a thousand-fold to what he had ever shown to Harry, spat, "It is not I who have anything to pay now, Wormtail." He was mirroring Wormtail's movements, both of them creeping sidways, closer and closer to the foot of the Dais.

Wormtail placed a foot on a step. "I can stop him crossing."

"You cannot. He will go," Snape replied, climbing slowly, both men nearly at the top now. They were both almost within arm's reach of Harry.

"Go now, Potter. Wormtail and I will await your return." They stood in a deadlock, wands crossed, and Harry turned and flung himself through the veil.

Part 3 of 3: Power the Dark Lord Knows Not

The wind that was only faintly visible from the other side of the veil was now a torrent that flowed around and through and into Harry until he felt bodiless, held together by light and energy. Then the wind died. And so had Harry.

He looked at his hands, which seemed to be ok, and felt his arms and head, even giving a little pinch to his ear in an old habit to confirm that this wasn't a dream; everything still seemed to be intact. He pulled his attention away from himself and looked around; he was in a gigantic outdoor arena made of arches similar to the one he had just passed through, but veilless. He could feel himself gasping for breath, but the noise was lost in the wide, still expanse. And yet, he thought he could detect hints of voices under the silence, just the merest of hushing sounds, coming from everywhere and nowhere. And he thought he could still hear a wind, more like a tired, relieved sigh, from nearby behind him, perhaps coming from the arch he had just passed through. But it dissipated into the distance around him.

Then, perfectly audible, came a deep, silky laugh, and Harry's attention was brought to the very centre of the arena. There stood a black draped figure, standing over a pearly pedestal atop which stood-

"Dumbledore's pensieve!" Harry exclaimed before he could stop himself, but the weak thinness of his voice frightened him, and he thought that some of the laughter that ridiculed it was not coming from the robed man, but from the air around him.

"You are most welcome in the antechamber of the dead, Potter," came the snakelike whisper that shivered its way into Harry's mind. "This historic moment will be honoured by the presence of a witness, and then crowned by a most desirable death. My servant has guided you well."

From this distance Harry could barely see Voldemort's white face, but the red eyes burned like coals before they turned away from him. Voldemort was reaching a skeletal finger out to the pensieve, which sat calmly atop its stand, swirling its inner light.

"No!" cried Harry, startled again by his feebleness, in voice and in command, but also feeling the onus of his task heavy upon him and at a complete loss as to what else he could do.

The hand paused a moment, the space between the fingertip and the lip of the bowl invisible from this distance. "I would like to see you try, boy," said Voldemort's voice, thin and empty. "I really would." And his laugh came again and again, echoing all around Harry, making a mockery of the echoes of his own quavering "no" that still hung in the air. Harry had no idea why the pensieve was here, or what it could mean, but he knew with all of his being that he could not allow it to cross the veil, whatever the cost. And the hand was moving again.

"I said no!" He shrieked, this time with every particle of his being, with all the fear and hatred that was welling up in his chest.

And for just an instant he thought he saw the hand shudder and halt in mid-air. Slowly, the red eyes turned on him again. Harry, with muscles clenched, expected an attack. But Instead Voldemort laughed, a hiss that grew into an explosive outburst.

"Saving the world as usual, are you, boy?" He threw back his head and laughed deeply again; Harry wasn't sure whether to be affronted or very, very scared. "You may find that your strength will not compare with that of one such as I!"

He felt a sudden fierce wave, like wind rolling off a thunderclap, press him backwards, causing his feet to slip. He braced himself but couldn't think of a way to make it stop, unaware as he was what the power could actually be. All he could do was to impotently fight to keep on his feet, trying not to think about what he'd managed to get himself into, and hope against hope that Voldemort would tire before he did, or, at the very least, get bored. Harry was almost grateful enough to thank his oppressor when the attack ebbed of its own accord. He looked up to see Voldemort's eyes boring into him, a leer twitching at the corners of his thin-lipped mouth, and the pensieve in his hand. Harry's heart, already quavering in dread, fell within him. Had he failed so soon?

Voldemort was taking long strides toward him now, and Harry knew he had what he'd come for and was ready to cross back through the veil. Harry stood barring the way, with not a kindling of hope but merely an exacting sense of responsibility. He could not live (or die) with himself if he'd given up, even now when he might have already failed.

Voldemort's maddening, arrogant laugh reached his ears again.

"Step aside, boy. This is already done, prophecy and all." Voldemort waved his free hand almost lazily, and Harry found himself stumbling sideways, driven by all the forces of Voldemort's soul. Harry planted his feet, gritted his teeth, and, with one desperate thought, condensed all the power of his most fierce emotion, his terror, and sent it at Voldemort as hard as he could. Through one slitted eye he saw Voldemort bend forward against an invisible onslaught, and Harry felt the wave that was upon himself lessen.

Voldemort had stopped laughing now, and Harry found that he himself was shuddering as the last of his strength burnt out. Voldemort was straightening up, still cradling the pensieve against his chest. To his alarm Harry felt that Voldemort, without taking a step, was much nearer to him now, as though the arena were closing in upon them and shrinking the space within. In fact, the arches had gotten close enough that he could see dim, shadowy figures moving about beyond them.

"Ah, the great boy wonder has run out of tricks, I see? This occasion will serve to rid me of the stigma of your survival and the curse of your luck, which, you will see, has finally run out." And Harry realized, with a total sense of loss, that he was right. For the first time there was nothing and no one here to help him. Always, without fail, something had helped him at the final moment. Perhaps a hidden part of Harry had always wanted to believe that he was truly special, truly destined for greatness brought on by his own merits, not those of others. This must be what had driven him to intentionally follow Voldemort beyond the limits of anyone else's power, right into the land of the dead. And he could feel that callous element of his mind, unacknowledged till now, crying out and dying, and leaving him hopeless.

And as he stood, the wave hit him again, stronger than before, while he himself had already used up the last of his strength. Surrounded by the sound of diabolical laughter, he found himself on his knees, the rubble sliding through his fingers as he was forced backwards, defenceless. His toe finally met with something solid, and Harry looked up to see an arch directly above him, with faceless, ghost-like figures but an arm's length away. Suddenly Harry knew that if he allowed himself to cross that threshold he would never return, no matter how much help he cried out for. He would pass from purgatory beyond the point of no return. And by now Voldemort had nearly reached the veil.

Harry's hands curled into fists around the rubble and his face screwed up with shame. What would Snape think of the Chosen One now? And Ron and Hermione - and Ginny? And all the others who had held such faith in him. The words Hagrid had last spoken to him came unbidden and unwanted to his thoughts: "Yeh'll do it, Harry. There's somethin' special about yeh; we all know that." All these people, people who had come to love him with a fierceness of devotion, and he was going to let them all down.

His knee slipped one desperate inch further, but then, amazingly, felt he had the strength to stand, and then even to take one careful step against the current Voldemort was directing at him. Why hadn't he realized this sooner? He had foolishly been using the power of his fear, when Dumbledore had always said his great strength, the one power he could hold over Voldemort, was his love. It had never failed him yet, and gave him added energy now as he held those he loved in his mind's eye.

With renewed vigour Harry raised his head, ready to try again, to defend himself and his world once more. He had a grasp on his courage now, and held tightly to it. He gritted his teeth and raised his head high to face Voldemort, man to man, knowing what he took on. But there, paying no attention to him and standing before the veil, was the man himself, one hand already lost within its folds, the other clutching the pensieve and an empty glass phial.

Harry heard his cry of disdain lose itself in the echoes as Voldemort spoke with clarity the words: "Peter Pettigrew, I call you."

It was too late.

Voldemort stood, one hand ready to grasp at sacrifice and life, waiting.

And still waiting.

The sacrifice would not come. Was this Wormtail's final gift to Harry? He didn't think he'd ever truly know.

Harry stood petrified, as slowly, very slowly, Voldemort withdrew his hand from the veil. And as, just as slowly, he drew himself up, squaring his narrow shoulders, wrath and determination in his eyes, and turned upon him. Harry expected a rage, a fury, but what he saw instead chilled him throughout: maniacal hilarity wrenched Voldemort's features into a grotesque mask of laughter, which boomed into the furthest corners of the arena, skittered up and down Harry's spine, and then died instantly upon his lips.

"When even the great Potter cannot stop me, I am thwarted by that miserable piece of flesh. He will pay dearly for his cowardice," Voldemort promised with a hiss. "But first, I will deal with you!"

Those eyes burned into Harry with the intensity of the extremes of hatred. But Harry, despite his terror, noticed that the rest of Voldemort seemed to be not quite substantial, not quite visible in the grey light of the arena - an arena, Harry realized with a start, that appeared to be half the size it had when he'd first arrived.

Voldemort threw his arms up. Harry's muscles clenched with an animal instinct of defence, but then he saw Voldemort's arms freeze in mid-air, his eyes dart away from Harry's own and to the ground at Harry's feet. There, in an undignified pile, lay the contents of his recently torn bag; the punctured diary and the cracked ring, as well as all the horcruxes he had collected and carried about after Dumbledore's death, but had never found the means to destroy. But those looked different now. Harry, awed and completely unwary of any impending attack, found his eyes roving over the debris. He realized that the locket had sprung open and was charred inside. The cup seemed to have melted and caved in on itself. The wand was snapped in two. Nagini's fang had splintered into fragments. Could this damage have happened merely when his bag ripped? Or before that...

Voldemort's eyes were scanning from one item to another, taking them in, tallying them up. "No," he breathed. "Impossible..." And then the eyes came back to Harry's, with more menace than ever before. "YOU!"

And with all the force of his hatred, coupled with his desperation, Voldemort's power was upon Harry now without giving him a chance to defend himself. Harry slid back and realized almost too late that he had nearly put a heel through an archway, an archway which seemed to have crept up behind him. With a will Harry brought his mind immediately around to Ginny, to her grinning eyes, the glint of silver sunlight in her hair, the scent of jasmine on her skin. He could not leave her! He would gain his strength from her, and through her. He felt his foothold grow strong, found the strength to lean into the raging wind, took a step, and then another.

Voldemort stood before him, trembling with his exertion. Harry, feeling a steadiness in his arms as something greater than himself coursed to his fingertips, wielded a calm, steady power he had never felt before. And as he watched, Voldemort stumbled back and collapsed against the veiled archway, the pensieve rolling away, forgotten, to a halt on the ground, his powers dwindling to nothing. Harry had overpowered him. Harry, though hesitant, willed himself to move forward now, his nerves taut and his eyes on Voldemort.

He inched his way closer, undecided as to whether he should strike in hopes of clearing the veil and making his escape, or brace himself, should Voldemort do something unexpected. As he crept nearer he stopped in his tracks as Voldemort, his forehead buried in the dust, turned his face toward Harry. He saw - a deadening realization - that the greatest and most evil wizard of all time, a man who had sought Harry's destruction his whole life, lay in a heap, oblivious to his surroundings, and all but crying for hopelessness.

Could this really be the person whose name all of wizarding-kind feared to speak? Suddenly, with a sick awareness, Harry felt instinctively that he was not facing the Dark Lord of the Death Eaters, but merely Tom Riddle, an old man who was despised by his father and all but abandoned by his mother. A man who had lived a life not of evil but of fear, and who was for the first time giving into that fear. Harry felt an overriding impulse to reach out, to clasp his shoulder, merely to let him feel the touch of another human being, and to tell him everything would be ok.

Suddenly Voldemort turned on him with his eyes ablaze, as though aware of Harry's thoughts. "I will not have _you_ pity _me_, Potter! Not you! Not _anyone_! I will suffer no such shame!" And in a moment his crazed eyes had caught sight of the tiny bottle peeping out from the pouch around Harry's neck, and his hand snatched it roughly away.

Harry's arm recoiled at the sudden movement and, attempting to stop the quick hand from robbing him of his only protection, merely managed to knock the glittering bottle from Voldemort's grasp and send it flying through the dull air and skittering into the dust some metres away. Harry couldn't see if it had been damaged as it lay on its side, choked with dirt. Without a moment's hesitation he threw himself toward it, but Voldemort clawed at his back, scrambling over him, their ethereal bodies touching, almost bleeding into each other, sending flares of pain dancing into Harry's eyes.

Neither could get close to the bottle. At the same instant, as though aware of each other's thoughts, each man concentrated his energy into hurling the other away, causing them both to fly in opposite directions across the arena, both desperately near to the arches. They were instantly on their feet again, but Harry was quicker and his hand flew out toward the bottle, concentrating all his mind into it, willing it to come to him with all his soul. It wobbled and then lifted clumsily, raining a trail of dust to the ground, and made a small movement in his direction. But all of a sudden it shot away from him and landed some distance off with a sickening thud; Voldemort stood to Harry's side, his hand held out to prevent him getting it. Their eyes met and locked, both waiting, each calculating his next move.

Harry saw then that Voldemort was shuddering with exhaustion now, so much so that he had bowed to one knee, and turned his face away as though for shame. Harry hoped that his own trembling was not as obvious, but felt it must be; he could hardly keep himself standing.

All about them the whisperings of the shadowy archway figures had grown louder, and the arena was now no more than twenty metres across. Harry's overtired mind seemed to know at least one thing: if he didn't act quickly he would be swallowed up into the other land, never to return. He must at least do the one thing he had set out to do; prevent Voldemort's getting his hands on either the phial or the pensieve before the arches closed together upon them. But he also knew that he'd always intended to come out of even this ordeal alive.

Voldemort's eyes were now drawn toward the veil that towered over him. He cowered, mesmerised, with his eyes fixed on the shadowy figures that seemed to reach out for him, from which voices were just discernible. Harry's eyes traveled beyond Voldemort to the veil as well, as he, in morbid fear, listened for the words coming to them from the land of the dead.

_"Riddle... _

_"the Riddle boy... _

_"and Potter... _

_"Harry... _

"Harry!"

One of the voices rose above the others, and right near to Harry - a gruff, familiar sounding voice - almost like -

"Harry!"

With a jolt that broke him from his stupor Harry whipped out his mirror, which hadn't given a thought to in all this time, from the pouch about his neck.

"Sirius!"

Yes, there, after such a long wait, was Sirius's face in the mirror. But not the Sirius who had left Harry and crossed the veil years ago. It was a Sirius with clean, glossy, rakish hair and a healthy profile, with eyes that were no longer haunted by the past; but were nonetheless crinkled with concern.

"Good God, Harry, what's going on?"

"Voldemort! He came for something, for the pensieve."

"Are you ok?"

"Yes - but I don't know what to do now. Wormtail won't bring him back but he tried to take my potion. He won't let me through."

Sirius frowned and shook his head, overwhelmed by Harry's string of words and by their terrible meaning.

"Dumbledore's here. And your parents. Maybe they can help."

Harry was thunderstruck. "My -"

Into the frame appeared three new faces, all caught between expressions of pleasure at seeing him, and fear for his safety.

"Darling!" There were the startling green eyes.

"Mum..."

"Hey there, son," said the man with the tousled hair, managing a small grin.

"Dad!"

And beside him, a venerable silver beard topped by half-moon spectacles. Dumbledore said nothing, but his eyes twinkled and flashed.

"Professor!" Harry tried to hide his disappointment. Had he not been hoping to find Dumbledore alive one day, thanks to the discovery he had made at Godric's Hollow?

Dumbledore, practical even in death, went straight to business. "You are quickly running out of time, I presume?"

Harry glanced around. The walls had definitely moved in alarmingly close. Harry nodded. "How do I stop him?"

Dumbledore bowed his head. "You cannot stop him. Now you can only help him, by the power he knows not."

"Help - but- but I don't even know what-"

"No. I never got the chance to show you." Dumbledore's eyes were not meeting Harry's. "I always believed I had more time."

Harry let loose the things - hopes, or anger- that had sat broiling in his mind since he had left Godric's Hollow. "But your horcrux! I heard you say-"

The pale eyes were now gazing into Harry's. "Then you know? And you trust me yet? I am forever in your debt, Harry; and forever, it turns out, is a very long time. I had to use it, Harry, after destroying the Gaunt ring. I was not aptly prepared to match wits with a horcrux. Professor Snape helped me to stop the poison spreading beyond my hand by using a comparatively undamaged piece of my soul. But time is short. I must leave this for another day, when you have lived long and loved much. Now I must entrust you to your mother's wisdom."

Harry found that he had to swallow the many things he wanted to say, to ask, to scream, now that he was, impossibly, faced with Dumbledore, and maddeningly without time. This was his only chance, and for his own safety he would have to give it up. His mother's face appeared in the mirror now, bringing still more questions, still more things that could never be said.

"Harry, dearest, is it true that Voldemort has your blood running in his veins?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "Then he also has mine. The night your father and I died I took a wild chance in hopes of protecting you; I gave you some of the same potion that I gave to Dumbledore, the same one someone must have given you tonight. It is a potion I worked with at the Department of Mysteries. It is called the Philter of Azoth. It had never before been used in the land of the living, but miraculously it saved you, and Dumbledore went a step further than even I had thought to; he created a charm that would activate the same protection through another's blood, the same blood."

"Aunt Petunia!"

She nodded again. "She too made a great sacrifice, or a sacrifice that was great in her eyes, in taking you, and made it knowingly. She gave up her freedom and security. But Harry, can you possibly know what it means to have my blood running through both yours and Voldemort's veins?"

Harry tried to think, but his mind was spinning. He hadn't the faintest idea what this all could mean for him.

Seeing that he was unable to answer, she went on. "It means you can do something for him, as I did for you. There is something in you that he needs. He is very damaged and if, in some way, you can find it in your heart to forgive him and to love him, you can save him." Harry tried not to let the horror of the idea of sacrificing something of himself for the sake of Voldemort, for no less than love of him, show in his features; he didn't want his mother's last memory of him to be of his selfishness. "The charm is called Diligo Vitualamen. It is very difficult to cast. You must give wholly of your heart. Dumbledore suspected what this charm, built from love that can cure all, might do, and did attempt to cast it through you once. But Voldemort blocked it, never understanding what it could do for him."

Harry's mind now whipped to the Department of Mysteries years ago, when Voldemort had laughed at some spell of Dumbledore's; some attempt to destroy him but not through death.

His mother looked at him, waiting, love and concern tangible in her green eyes. Harry now shook his head, his eyes unfocused, distant. "I don't have a wand," was all he said.

She smiled encouragingly. "You won't need it here. A wand only serves to concentrate the power of the soul, because the body is too clumsy a tool. Here that power is at your command." Harry realized that this was obviously true. Had he not already had a battle of power with Voldemort, one he had not even attempted to understand up till now?

His eyes wandered to the man huddled on the ground, not far away, with scarlet eyes fixed on the terrible archway that was bearing down on him, and desperate fear visible in every line of his body. His misery was a painful, pitful sight. It dawned on Harry then that if he could feel pity, then maybe, just maybe, that could be heightened into love... But he certainly felt no love for Voldemort now. He could only hope that it would come, and quickly.

"Can you do it?" Harry's attention was drawn back to the mirror and nodded with finality. He was ready, he knew. Or at least as ready as he would get a chance to be, in the little time he had left. He would do his best.

James moved to the forefront of the group now. "Best to get on with it, son. Till we meet again. May it be a lifetime away."

Harry saw Lily start, and clutch at her husband's arm. "Wait! Not yet! There's so much to say-"

"Harry knows it all. You do, right Harry?"

Harry looked on their expressive faces, fought back a choking sensation in his throat, and nodded. He could see that they were all together, and that they were happy. They loved and missed him, but would wait patiently for him to join them. He took one precious moment to fix the last image of them gathered there together in his mind, and, with a great mustering of willpower, shoved the mirror back into its pouch.

Harry cast one glance at the nearest arches, now only a very few metres away, and then another at the place where he hoped the lost phial was still sitting, intact, in the dust. Then he turned full on Voldemort, prostrate on the ground, his face buried in his hands, but with one wicked red eye now glinting at him from between claw-like fingers.

Harry took a deep breath to steady himself and prepare his mind, but maintained eye contact. Could he find it in himself to forgive the atrocities this man had committed, let alone find any love for him? He thought of all that would have to be forgiven, of all the people he had lost because of Voldemort: his parents and Sirius and Dumbledore, who he had just seen for the very last time. He thought of more who had suffered; Neville, the Order, the Bones family, Caradoc Dearhorn, even Malfoy, as well as so many countless others.

Looking at that frightful, untrusting red eye, Harry found he did feel something. Was it mere pity? No. It was true sympathy, he realized. Hadn't he himself known a friendless, loveless childhood as well? He found himself combing the depths of his soul for the things he did not want to face, the honesty no one willingly uses. There he learned that the only real difference between them was that Harry had never had the strength to harden his heart, had never learned to rely on himself as Tom Riddle had. And, most importantly, Harry had soon come to learn that his parents had loved him so very much, while Voldemort had only found disgust in what family was left to him. Could Harry have survived such a discovery after such a life, and gone on to be what he was now?

No, he thought. He had needed the love he'd soon found to cure his wounded soul. He was not a stronger man that Voldemort. Only lucky; lucky to have been loved once, and capable of believing that he could be truly, willfully, sacrificingly loved again. And Voldemort, tragically, had never once in all his years felt love like that.

And I can fix that, a determined voice said within him. I can sacrifice love for Voldemort, because I have enough to spare, even for him. Harry held out his hand and felt the words of the spell his mother had taught him forming on his lips.

But there the words died. A second voice had thrown up a cry in his mind, a cry of abject terror; something within Harry was scared to death of saying that spell and he shrunk from the mere thought of it.

Harry gasped and clutched his hands to himself, taking an involuntary step backwards. What had just happened? He was suddenly and unexpectedly convinced he would die if he said the words, though neither his mother nor Dumbledore had said that this would be what he was called upon to do. He had felt so certain that he was ready to do for Voldemort whatever it was that needed to be done, and that he had understood exactly what he was undertaking. Would the sacrifice required be still greater? Was he going to lose his life to save the man who had cost him so much? Harry tried to call forth the unknown part of him that had cried out; he felt it knew something he didn't, and he needed to know everything.

But the thing, whatever it was, had sunk back to the depths of his subconscious, and he could not bring it back by force. Harry shook his head vigorously. Maybe he'd only imagined it? Looking at the ominous arches all around him, he decided to give it another go. The first word was already forming on his tongue when suddenly the new voice rose again.

_I will not die now, not for him!_

Harry gasped again and did not complete the spell. This voice seemed like something foreign, not of him. The only thing remotely similar had occured when Voldemort's thoughts had leaked into his mind, but that could not be the case now, with Voldemort sprawled on the ground before him... could it? Or was he going crazy? Harry took an involuntary glance around him and saw that the arena had shrunk so much that he could have walked from one end in the other in a few strides. He didn't have time for this!

He searched his mind again, but the thing was gone, just as it had gone before. Harry was nearing the point of panic, now; if he delayed much longer he would be swallowed up by the arches entirely... But then he realized that maybe that was what was necessary in order for him to cast the charm on Voldemort. Not merely a sacrifice of love, but of life. After all, his mother had sacrificed her life for him... Perhaps that was the only way. And he had thought it would be so easy, once he'd found forgiveness. Was he willing to give even more?

Harry looked at Voldemort again as he lay barring the way to the veil. Would Harry have the strength to force him out of the way, to keep him from seizing his potion once again, if he decided to make a run for it? Somehow he thought not. He had already tried that one, and it certainly didn't look like Voldemort had any intention of moving an inch away from the veil and closer to the other arches.

Harry had a sudden and certain realization, which was more concrete than any of his worst imaginings up till now. I'm going to die, he thought. I'm going to die tonight one way or another. He suddenly found himself shuddering, his shoulders heaving. His mind was exploding with images of all the people he would leave, the people he would never say goodbye to: Ron and Hermione, unconscious on the ground of the Death Room; the Weasleys, who had made him one of their own family; Hagrid... and Ginny... Harry couldn't bear the thought of their suffering... he would surely die of this pain before the arches overtook him; he couldn't bear it!

And he felt a sudden surrender within him, a complete surrender, as though his whole soul had lost the will to fight, had succumbed to the inarguable bleakness of the situation. He realized that, whether he cast the spell or not, he was going to lose everything. And so, with nothing to lose, the words came.

"Diligo Vitualamen!!!"

And pain blazed through him, worse even than when Voldemort had possessed him and he had cried out for death; he was certain that his scar was literally being torn asunder this time. Something in him was being ripped away, split down the centre, something raw and tender and sore; something that could not bear to leave him. And then that something was gone, and the pain ended completely, and Harry knew it would somehow never return, come what may.

With tears burning his eyes, he peered at the thing that now stood between himself and Voldemort, the thing that must have caused him such pain, and felt such agony itself. It was a shimmering, ghostly figure of a young man; it was none other than Tom Riddle. But he was almost unrecognizable, with an open smile, given with his whole heart, showing a soul that had known laughter, and love.

The vision spoke in a distant, misty voice. "I'm sorry, Harry," it said, "and thank you." Harry stood speechless, frozen throughout his entire being. The voice went on: "I have been with you through all your sorrows and joys, since the night the spell backfired. I was not meant to join you but to be saved away for a special horcrux, but I am glad. Through you I have grown young. I have known love. And I will find the courage to die, if it will save you and let you go on loving. I owe you that much and more; and will make that sacrifice. I'm sorry I did not have the strength to do so at first; but it will be a cold existence with him after being with you. But then perhaps I can teach him what I have learned in my absence."

He then spread his arms out, and seemed to beckon something in the air to him. Suddenly Harry could almost see, like a glint on an insect's fine wings, the outlines of six more men moving toward him from the surrounding area, and touching their hands to his - the souls from the broken horcruxes. They must have been floating about, invisible, in the arena ever since Harry crossed the veil. They all, Riddle as well as the other soul pieces, then turned to Voldemort, who was curled away from them, pressed as far into the veiled archway behind him as possible, completely aghast. Riddle turned to Harry once more.

"Harry, will you help us again? The power of love only can bring us together, and together only can we begin our afterlife with head held high."

Harry gave the smallest of little nods; his body was rigid with shock. He took a step up to Riddle and, under the young man's kind, encouraging eyes, touched his hand to the others. He could barely feel them, apart from a weak warmth, like early sunlight.

Riddle nodded. "Now touch him for us; we cannot, for we are no longer of the same substance. But I can touch you and them. Bring us together, Harry." Harry slowly, so slowly, reached out his hand and, despite Voldemort's miserable squirmings, lightly touched his fingertips to Voldemort's brow. Suddenly he felt as though all that was left in the world was light; he had no being, but was a conduit of brilliant current. And then the light was gone.

Before he'd dared to open his eyes, Harry heard a voice, another new voice, deep and melodious, say, "You'd better go, Harry."

Before him stood not the black-shrouded Voldemort who had haunted his life for so many years, nor the ghostly boy, but a tall, silver-haired man with a strong, smooth face and dark, kind eyes.

The man moved gracefully aside from the veil, and spoke again with his low, soft voice. "Time is short." He moved to a place beyond Harry in the narrow space, bent, and Harry saw him lift the phial from the rubble, fiery glints still struggling to shine through the encrusted dirt. Harry had a moment of doubt, seeing his salvation in that hand, but it was not the same skeletal hand as before. This one held out the bottle immediately to Harry, who took it slowly and with a sense of awe.

"I will cross bravely, now, for I know what it is to be brave and to meet one's fate with a sure step. I owe you everything, Harry; far beyond what I have taken from you. Through you I have lived and will not regret dying." Harry thought he saw a fleeting smile before the man turned away from him and walked with shoulders squared and head held high to the archway a few feet away, directly across from the veil. Then, with barely a pause, he took his final step, and his body dissipated, leaving but a shadow beyond that stood and watched Harry from another realm.

Standing there, in the space that was barely a metre across now, Harry felt an eerie calm. It was over, but he felt a loss he had not expected. He looked about him, toward the arches that were but an arm's reach away, where so many other figures stood nearby as well, and then turned his face to the pensieve lying in the dust. He picked it up and weighed it in his hands. What could it have meant? What had Dumbledore done with the memories he had poured into it? Perhaps just ghosts, just images of a soul returned to life for a moment. So maybe he had found a use for the cauldron with the power to control souls, after all. Harry turned toward the veil, but at the last moment decided to place the pensieve upright on the ground, as its pedestal long-lost to the realm beyond the arches. It would be best, he knew, to leave it to the protection of this land.

In a decisive movement he downed his potion, which tasted of woodsmoke and iron and a land-bound breeze. All that remained was to call on Snape. Would he heed his call now? Harry had already chosen to trust, and could do no more now.

"Severus Snape."

He waited but a moment before a sallow-skinned hand reached in and clasped his. Harry felt himself drawn forward, and thought for an instant that he saw black eyes and a hooked nose immediately before his face, then their eyes met, touched, and passed through one another.


End file.
